


Suffice

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Inline with canon, M/M, Men Crying, No Plot/Plotless, Post-Loss, Tournaments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-12
Updated: 2019-12-12
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:27:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21646768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "Oikawa is going to break, now or soon, Iwaizumi knows, and if he still has his armor up when the blow comes the shards will have nowhere to go but in." After their loss, Iwaizumi tells Oikawa what he needs to hear.
Relationships: Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru
Comments: 28
Kudos: 172





	Suffice

There is an explosion brewing.

Iwaizumi can see it. It’s in the tilt of Oikawa’s chin, pinned to the deliberate line of his shoulders, shifting into such care with his steps that he seems almost to saunter as they leave the gym. His hair is perfect, tousled into a sweaty tumble that falls into even greater appeal at the back of his neck and sweeping over his forehead than when it’s more neatly styled, and Iwaizumi can see the sweep of intentional fingers in the locks where they have been pushed back from Oikawa’s forehead. Oikawa’s eyes are clear, his mouth set, his jaw fixed; to look at him, Iwaizumi thinks a stranger might be forgiven for wondering if he even lost the last match at all, if he isn’t already looking ahead to the next opponent waiting for them higher in the tournament bracket.

Iwaizumi isn’t a stranger. He’s known Oikawa for what seems like the whole of his life, or at least all of it that matters: that part that blossomed with the first glance into wide eyes and a smile that can flash like sunlight or cut like a knife, depending on how it’s wielded. Iwaizumi has spent all his life at Oikawa’s side, watching the show the other puts on from the shadows of the wings instead of the audience seats, and he knows how to recognize the cracks that form when even Oikawa is running short of showmanship. Oikawa is going to break, now or soon, Iwaizumi knows, and if he still has his armor up when the blow comes the shards will have nowhere to go but in.

Iwaizumi waits as long as he can. He knows Oikawa as well as a person can know someone else, but Oikawa is all but an adult himself, and even if he stubbornly refuses to recognize his own bad habits Iwaizumi is sure the force of his gaze carries enough purpose to convey his point without words. But Oikawa doesn’t look at him. He’s everywhere else, pressing a comforting grip to a shoulder or offering a handshake to steady breaths gone short and broken on tears, and his gaze dodges around Iwaizumi like the other isn’t even there, or more, as if he’s just a stranger who happens to be placed in the middle of the team Oikawa is determined to support, even now. Iwaizumi watches, and waits, feeling his temper fraying paper-thin even as he grips it with all the patience he has ever mustered for himself; and then Oikawa lifts his head to look out the front doors of the gym and towards the bus that will take them home, and Iwaizumi has no more time left to give.

Oikawa tenses as soon as Iwaizumi’s fingers touch him, even before the other has tightened his grip to a fist against the sleeve of Oikawa’s jersey. “Oikawa,” Iwaizumi says, speaking softly but without any attempt to soften the growl of danger in the back of his throat. “I need you.”

Oikawa doesn’t turn his head as he shrugs to shake off Iwaizumi’s hold. “Can’t it wait, Iwa-chan?” he says to the doors he’s still gazing towards. “I think we’ll all feel a lot better once we’re back at the school.”

“Nope,” Iwaizumi says. “Come on.”

Oikawa huffs a laugh, bright and breathless and astonishingly insincere even for him. “You really should work on your patience,” he says, as he tips his head to gesture towards Iwaizumi without looking at him and lifts a hand to wave dismissal through the air. “If you just--”

“Tooru.”

Oikawa goes still. Even his upraised hand falters in its motion, freezing for a moment as if it’s been suspended in midair before it drops to fall heavy to his side. Iwaizumi presses his lips together and swallows, willing his throat to soften from the rasp of tears that are beginning to ache danger behind his eyes again. He loosens his grip on Oikawa’s shirt to slide his palm across to the middle of the other’s shoulderblades and fit his touch into the dip formed by the intentional grace of the other’s posture. His ring finger brushes the collar of Oikawa’s shirt; his first two fingers find the knob of bone at the top of the other’s spine. Oikawa stands fixed for a moment, his head half-turned and his body frozen still; then Iwaizumi shifts his thumb, and Oikawa turns in towards him as Iwaizumi walks them away from the red eyes and muffled sobs of the rest of the team.

Oikawa doesn’t speak again as Iwaizumi leads him down the hallway, away from the matches still continuing and as far distant from interruption as he can get them. They end up in the shadow of one of the unused courts, with the only lighting the sunset cutting orange and gold through the window alongside them. Iwaizumi walks them forward, continuing as the strength of his steps fades out to a stop, and Oikawa follows him without comment, even when they have come to a halt in the middle of the hallway. Iwaizumi stands there for a minute, his fingers still brushing Oikawa’s neck and his gaze fixed straight ahead at the end of the hallway; and then he takes a breath and speaks with clear force.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

There’s a moment of perfect silence. Oikawa doesn’t move next to Iwaizumi. When he speaks his voice is flat, its usual lilting heights deadened to a monotone that seems to stick in his throat until he wrenches it free. “Are you trying to say it was yours?”

Iwaizumi’s jaw clenches, his fingers tighten against the back of Oikawa’s neck, but when his words tear free it’s his own throat they savage as they twist around on their wielder. “More than it was yours,” he grates. “I’m supposed to be the ace, it’s my  _ job _ to make the hits you give me.”

Oikawa jerks his shoulder sharply aside to drag away from Iwaizumi’s hold. “You can’t do the impossible,” he snaps. Iwaizumi can hear the crackle of a burning fuse under the other’s voice, the edge of tamped-down hurt rising to bare its teeth and lash out for the draw of blood. “If I give you a toss that’s going to be blocked--”

“You  _ didn’t_,” Iwaizumi says, and pivots so sharply on his heel that it squeaks against the smooth of the floor beneath them. “You gave me a  _ perfect _ toss, it was my fault I couldn’t get it in.”

Oikawa jerks his head to the side in negation. “They were right there,” he says, all the elegance of his voice stripping itself ragged and bleeding on the tension cording at the lines of his throat. “I should have--” He shakes his head again, so sharply Iwaizumi would wince at the pain it must bring were he not clenching his own anger in a vice grip that has locked all his body into trembling submission. “They knew I was going to give it to you. If I had tossed to someone else--”

Iwaizumi’s vision blurs, his chest strains. “ _Don’t_ ” he says, except it’s not speech as much as a growl, heavy and dark with warning. His hands come out, moving on the orders of the fury surging through him, so for a moment he doesn’t know if they will form to a blow or the fists they close to against the front of Oikawa’s jersey. “Don’t you  _ dare _ apologize for giving it to me.”

Oikawa’s chin comes up, his eyes wide and crackling with such electricity Iwaizumi imagines he can feel the small hairs on his arms lifting with the energy loose in the air. “And if we would have won?” he lashes back. “If that would have given us the game?” He lifts his hand to force the palm against Iwaizumi’s chest with some part of the force that makes his serves so devastating. Iwaizumi is prepared for it, is expecting it,  _ wants _ it, but even with his feet braced wide and steady he stumbles backwards at the blow. His hands stay tight at Oikawa’s jersey as he goes; his retreat drags Oikawa forward with him, keeping them locked at arm’s-length distance as they both stumble backwards towards the side of the hallway. Oikawa doesn’t seem to notice the movement; he’s grabbing at Iwaizumi’s shoulder, his fingers digging into bruises as he glares into the other’s face. “If we had  _ won_, if it would give us another game? I’d trade one toss for another game with you.”

“ _I _ wouldn’t,” Iwaizumi snaps, and as he hears the echo of his words he realizes they are true, though he wouldn’t have thought so a moment ago. “Not that toss, Tooru.” He flexes his arms to drag Oikawa in and shake him to underscore his point. “Don’t even  _ think _ about giving it to someone else.”

“Then I should have made it  _ better_.”

“ _How?_ ” and Iwaizumi’s shouting, now, his voice is rising to crest over the jagged peaks of Oikawa’s protests to sweep them aside, to scour them both until there is nothing left of the self-loathing tearing at Iwaizumi’s heart and caustic behind Oikawa’s wide eyes. “What else were you supposed to  _ do_? You’ve run yourself ragged over this for  _ years_, until your hands bled and your legs cramped and your knee broke and you think you should have done  _ more_?”

“Of  _ course_.” Oikawa’s voice skids up to match Iwaizumi’s, bleeding into the shrill edges of a wail, and his hand is clutching at Iwaizumi’s shoulder and his other palm is shoving against Iwaizumi’s chest and his eyes are shining, they’re drowning in the rising tide of the tears catching under his voice before they spill over his lashes. “We  _ lost_.”

“So  _ what_?” Iwaizumi yells. Oikawa blinks, his eyes opening wide as his emotion is startled away by this response, and in the silence Iwaizumi finds the space to draw a breath and return back to some part of himself.

“So what,” he says again, more softly, with only the rasp of his voice to speak to his previous intensity. “Sometimes teams lose. Good teams, with good players.” Oikawa’s forehead creases, his mouth twists, and Iwaizumi lets one of his hands go so he can grip at the back of Oikawa’s neck and stall his protest before it can gain voice.

“Enough,” Iwaizumi says. His volume is gone, his temper is spent. In its absence he can feel the exhaustion of the match, the tremble of exertion climbing his legs and quivering at his shoulders, but his hand at Oikawa’s neck is as perfectly steady as the gaze he turns on the other. “It’s alright.” He takes a breath and lets it out. “You did enough, Tooru.”

Oikawa stares at Iwaizumi for a minute. His eyes are wide and so bright even Iwaizumi can’t make a guess at what is closest to the surface of Oikawa’s mind. His fingers shift at Iwaizumi’s shirt, like he’s thinking about pushing the other away outright, and then Iwaizumi sees his mouth change, sees the soft of Oikawa’s lip quiver with giveaway emotion even before he ducks his head forward to hide his eyes in shadow. His shoulders come up, his breathing catches, and Iwaizumi pulls at the back of his neck to bring Oikawa stumbling in against him before the first tears have spilled over his lashes. Oikawa’s hold at his shoulder loosens and comes up to clutch a clumsy arm around Iwaizumi’s neck, and Iwaizumi pushes his hand up into Oikawa’s soft hair as Oikawa gasps a choking sob against the front of his jersey.

They stay like that for long minutes. Iwaizumi’s own eyes are wet, his lashes soaked with tears that overflow every time he blinks, but he doesn’t duck his head to hide them, doesn’t lift his hand to attempt the futile attempt to dry his cheeks. He just keeps his hand cradling Oikawa’s head against his shoulder, and his other arm pressing against the sweat-damp shirt clinging to Oikawa’s back, and when Oikawa sags against him and sobs into his shirt Iwaizumi shuts his eyes, and tightens his hold, and keeps them both on their feet.


End file.
